


All That Glitters

by Baliseth



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Death Stranding - Freeform, Head-Canon, Higgs Monaghan - Freeform, Homo Demens (Death Stranding), Kintsugi, One Shot, Somewhere around the middle of the game, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21564457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baliseth/pseuds/Baliseth
Summary: Head-Canon: What if Higgs' love of ancient cultures wasn't limited to Egyptian pharaohs?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	All That Glitters

Chiralium, looking like liquid gold, bubbled up from the ground once the BT’s fled, reaching for the sky like the hands of buried kings, like Midas grasping for something that would save him from his curse. Higgs grinned, feeling their power retreating though he knew that he could call them back with a thought. The BTs might frighten everyone else but to him, they’d proven to be a useful tool since the Death Stranding. 

He hummed as that porter connected another strand to the chiral network. Every connection made him stronger, brought him closer to the Beach, closer to her, closer to DOOMS-Day. He hated Sam for what he represented, but at the same time he couldn’t help but be a little grateful to him for making the chiral network a reality. Oh if only he knew what he was doing. He chuckled under his breath, reveling in the new connection, the new strands of power flowing through him. 

The MULEs crept up behind him, trying to keep their distance from this man wreathed in tar and chiralium, in black and gold, but they couldn’t resist the packages at his feet. The delivery was a biological addiction for them, an imperative that they couldn’t resist, even if it meant crossing paths with the particle of God. 

Higgs smiled as they approached. He’d heard them coming, left the parcels there as bait to bring them closer. It was a favorite game of his - baiting the MULEs, convincing them that they’d stolen his goods so he could use them to ferry things around the countryside. Eventually, a brave porter would find their camp and reclaim the ‘stolen’ packages, and the game would continue. He could wait. He could be impulsive but patience was something he had in abundance. 

He didn’t move, eyes closed behind his black shroud and chiralium mask. Normally, they wouldn’t dare to brave BT territory, so he’d sent them away but he could call them back with a thought. Where would the fun be in that, though? That would ruin the game. 

What he didn’t expect was that one of these foolish humans would be brave enough to strike at him. They didn’t talk, didn’t communicate a plan. One simply lashed out with a scrap iron dagger, throwing it with enough force that it embedded itself into his shoulder. 

Higgs hissed in pain. 

“What the hell are you playing at?” he drawled. “Don’t you know who I am?” 

The MULE didn’t reply, just looked up at him with wide eyes. 

“I’m the Particle of God,” he hissed through is teeth. “And you’re lunch meat.” 

Stretching his fingers toward the ground, he called up the tar that sat just beneath the surface. It bubbled upward, engulfing the MULE’s feet. His eyes grew wide as slick black hands started to draw him down into the black.

With another motion, Higgs froze the tar. 

“Now,” he drawled, his voice sharp as a blade. He reached up and snatched the dagger from his shoulder, flipping it around and offering it back to the entangled MULE. “Are you going to apologize or should I feed you to the BTs? With the lot of you, the voidout would be legendary.” 

The MULE opened and closed his mouth a few times, gaping like fish before he finally found his voice.

“I...I...I’m s..s..s..s.s.sorry,” he stammered finally, his face pale with terror. “I’m sorry.” 

“There, that’s more like he,” said Higgs. He pulled off his mask and shroud, a ghoulish grin splitting his features. “Though my friends will be awfully disappointed that they’re getting denied their snacks.Oh well. They’ll be waiting for you when the time comes.” With a wave, he banished the tar and sent the MULEs scrambling back in the direction that they’d come.

“Wait, you forgot my stuff!” he called after them, chuckling under his breath. Ah well. There’d be other MULEs and other opportunities to play his game. 

The wound in his shoulder stung fiercely, and he could see blood seeping into his black coat. Cursing under his breath, he teleported back to his bunker.

It was dark, cold and smelled like old pizza, but it was home, at least until the world finally ended. The Death Stranding was a nice party trick but there were still humans left on this little sliver of the world, and it wouldn’t be long before it all ended. 

He turned the lights and heating on with a wave of his hand, illuminating photos and text scrawled on the wall. Tracking him. Always tracking. He considered putting in a pizza order, but decided against it.

Instead, he pulled off his cloak and tossed it into the corner with his mask and shawl. The mask ended up on a pile of old books about ancient cultures. The pre-Stranding world had always fascinated him. He’d spent a lifetime trapped in this bunker, and these books were a portal to the outside world, even if the one they described didn’t exist anymore. A book on Ancient Egypt served as the foundation for the pile, though he didn’t have any idea if the Pyramids or the Sphinx survived the Stranding. Maybe he’d have to go see for himself someday. 

Books on the Mayan civilizations in the jungles of South America fascinated him because of their penchant for human sacrifice -- and the fact that most of these sacrificial victims went willingly to their deaths to please the gods. As a kid he’d wondered why they’d do that. Now, he wondered what it would take to earn such devotion as a God.

Poised on the top, next to a small cracked pot, was a book on the Japanese practice of Kintsugi -- repairing broken things with gold or other precious metals to highlight the crack and make the piece more beautiful. He’d tried it with gold and silver, since they had very little value in the post-Stranding world, but he’d never managed to make it work. 

Chiralium, on the other hand, was much easier to manipulate. 

Next came the boots, cargo pants and the heavy overshirt, already soaked with blood. He cursed. The blood would come out but the holes would be a problem. He could call timefall on whim but even he wasn’t immune to it. He tossed them all into a pile in the corner. He’d deal with them later. 

A streak of bright red blood tracked down his shirt. It didn’t look like it was actively bleeding anymore but blood was always a bitch to get out of clothing. He pulled it off and tossed it into the pile with the rest of his gear. He’d get around to it, eventually. Or he’d keep piling it up until it started to annoy him and he’d teleport it all into the nearest tar lake. One or the other. He’d decide later. 

His skin was lined with golden scars, marks of battles won, battles lost, and battles survived. Knife-wounds, bone-deep bruises left by those non-lethal weapons that Bridges loved so damn much, claw marks from errant BTs before he’d learned to control them, and even lichtenberg figures where the MULE’s stunners had pumped electric current into his flesh. Each wound, each memory, forever preserved with chiralium, kintsugi written in flesh. 

He grabbed a vial of chiral crystals from the desk and poured them into his hand. Taking a deep breath, he activated the chiralium and slammed the handful of molten crystal into his shoulder. 

He hissed in pain as the liquid metal slithered into the wound, stopping the last trickle of blood as it dripped down his chest. It burned through his shoulder, filling the jagged hole that the scrap dagger had left behind. 

The process only took a few moments but it took much longer for the searing pain to fade enough that his vision cleared. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a cracked mirror. While it wasn’t as pretty as some of his other scars, the chiralium did it’s job. The pain would fade with time but the mark would stay, a reminder to expect the unexpected. 

He slipped into the shower to wash away the swiftly drying blood, running soapy hands almost lovingly over each chiralium-memorialized scar. Kintsugi used precious metals to make broken things whole again. Chiralium could do that for him. Instead of a Midas touch, changing the world to gold, he turned it inward. He would shine in the dark as the world faded around him. He was the particle of God, and nothing in this world could break him for long. 


End file.
